Night Prey Read Online Free PDF

shit,” and as they came up to the scene, ran his window down and shouted, “Minneapolis police” at the cop directing traffic. The cop waved him into the parking area.
    “What?” Lucas asked. The blonde was waving her arms.
    “Trouble,” Sloan said. He popped the door. “That’s Connell.”
    A bony deputy sheriff with a dark, weathered face had been talking to a city cop at the Dumpster, and when the Porsche pulled into the lot, the deputy grinned briefly, called something out to the cop who was arguing with the blond woman, and started over.
    “Helstrom,” said Lucas, digging for the name. “D. T. Helstrom. Remember that professor that Carlo Druze killed?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Helstrom found him,” Lucas said. “He’s a good guy.”
    They got out of the car as Helstrom came up to Lucas and stuck out his hand. “Davenport. Heard you were back. Deputy chief, huh? Congratulations.”
    “D. T. How are you?” Lucas said. “Haven’t seen you since you dug up the professor.”
    “Yeah, well, this is sorta worse,” Helstrom said, looking back at the Dumpster. He rubbed his nose.
    The blond woman called past the cop, “Hey. Sloan.”
    Sloan muttered something under his breath, and then, louder, “Hey, Meagan.”
    “This lady working with you?” Helstrom asked Sloan, jerking a thumb at the blonde.
    Sloan nodded, said, “More or less,” and Lucas tipped his head toward his friend. “This is Sloan,” he said to Helstrom. “Minneapolis homicide.”
    “Sloan,” the woman called. “Hey, Sloan. C’mere.”
    “Your friend’s a pain in the ass,” Helstrom said to Sloan.
    “You’d be a hundred percent right, except she’s not my friend,” Sloan said, and started toward her. “I’ll be right back.”

    THEY WERE STANDING on a blacktopped boat ramp, with striped spaces for car and trailer parking, a lockbox for fees, and a Dumpster for garbage. “What you got?” Lucas asked Helstrom as they started toward the Dumpster.
    “A freak . . . He did the killing on your side of the bridge, I think. There’s no blood over here, except what’s on her. She’d stopped bleeding before she went in the Dumpster, no sign of anything on the ground. And there must’ve been a lot of blood . . . Jesus, look at that.”
    Up on the westbound span of the bridge, a van with yellow flashing roof lights had stopped next to the rail, and a man with a television camera was shooting down at them.
    “That legal?” Lucas asked.
    “Damned if I know,” Helstrom said.
    Sloan and the woman came up. The woman was young, large, in her late twenties or early thirties. Despite her anger, her face was as pale as a dinner candle; her blond hair was cropped so short that Lucas could see the white of her scalp. “I don’t like the way I’m being treated,” the woman said.
    “You’ve got no jurisdiction here. You can either shut up or take yourself back across the bridge,” Helstrom snapped. “I’ve had about enough of you.”
    Lucas looked at her curiously. “You’re Meagan O’Connell?”
    “Connell. No O. I’m an investigator with the BCA. Who are you?”
    “Lucas Davenport.”
    “Huh,” she grunted. “I’ve heard about you.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. Some kind of macho asshole.”
    Lucas half-laughed, not sure she was serious, looked at Sloan, who shrugged. She was. Connell looked at Helstrom, who had allowed himself a small grin when Connell went after Lucas. “So can I see her, or what?”
    “If you’re working with Minneapolis homicide . . .” He looked at Sloan, and Sloan nodded. “Be my guest. Just don’t touch anything.”
    “Christ,” she muttered, and stalked down to the Dumpster. The Dumpster came to her collarbone, and she had to stand on her tiptoes to look in. She stood for a moment, looking down, then walked away, down toward the river, and began vomiting.
    “Be my fuckin’ guest,” Helstrom muttered.
    “What’d she do?” Lucas asked.
    “Came over like her ass was on fire and started